719 Rome - Philadelphia
by TheFutureUnseen
Summary: They are just two women. No family dynasty rests on Lena's shoulders. Kara is simply Kara Danvers. They are both free of expectations. They are complete strangers with no history, no secrets, no baggage between them. One day, by sheer chance, they happen to meet...


A/N: I'm so frustrated by the show that I just wanted to give our beautiful ladies a clean slate. Forgive any mistakes; this hasn't been beta-ed. Enjoy!

* * *

She is nothing like I expect. Her hair falls in a one, golden wave away from me, exposing the slender slope of her neck along with the small strip of scalp that is shaved. She wears square glasses. Somehow the spectacles humanize the angular beauty of her face. They're slightly too big for her. I can tell because every so often she reaches up to press them firmly up the ridge of her nose. It is the first time she does this that I notice her hands. She has great hands, strong hands. My mind immediately wanders. I blush and try not to think about those hands.

I overhear her ask how long the flight will be and I can't help but notice the cadence of her voice. It's soft like summer rain and deep like distant thunder; her accent lilting in just the right way to draw my attention. As she sits next to me, my mind wages a war against my body; I try simultaneously to pull away and lean closer to this woman who I've never met before. The warmth of her skin seeps through her sweater where our limbs barely touch, creeping slowly up my arm and infecting my mind.

The ten hours next to her are excruciating. Neither of us says a word past the perfunctory "excuse me" and "thank you" on the trips to the bathroom. Periodically, she stretches, rolling her shoulders or massaging her neck and the nominal contact increases excruciatingly… taunting me, testing me. How can it be so hard to find the right words to say something - _anything -_ when our bodies are already having such an intimate conversation? Each flex of her supple hands inspires a new fantasy to play out in my mind like clockwork. In one, her fingers simply come down to rest upon my thigh as if it is the most familiar action. In another, there is no armrest between us. My back is cocooned against her chest, my head tucked under her chin. We are wrapped in each other's arms, eyes closed, trying to catch some sleep during the flight yet thinking of anything but slumber. In the last reverie, we aren't in our seats at all. She has me pressed up against the door of the bathroom; I moan as she nips at my lips, pressing hot kisses against my mouth. Her hands - _those_ hands - graze their way down my breasts, my hips, my thighs. She cups my ass and hoists me up against her as if I weigh nothing. I gasp.

My cheeks flush and I clear my throat. My hands clench around the armrests. She simply flips the page of her newspaper, blissfully unaware. I look for any distraction, intent on exorcising the images from my mind. I scroll through the movies like a publisher through sludge, cursory and dismissive in my perusal. The stewardess comes by to ask for drink orders. G&T for me. Merlot for her. The flight attendant hands her my drink. I blush. She thinks we are together.

"It's fine," we both assure the flustered stewardess. It's anything but fine. It's the perfect moment to begin a conversation. We stare at each other, eyes held briefly in tandem, waiting like dancers for the music to start... but the captain makes an announcement about turbulence and the moment passes with the crackle of the PA system. We both look away.

Raw, painful disappointment lances through me like a knife. Does she feel it too? Fuck, it's been too long, I realize as I nurse my Gin and Tonic. This kind of innate, physical connection can't be normal… not with a stranger. Perhaps it's just my subconscious. Perhaps she is sitting there, wondering why the woman in the seat next to her won't give her more space. God, I must be crazy. I lean away and instantly miss her warmth.

 _Ten hours_. I should sleep, but my mind races. It traces the same loop like a broken rollercoaster. She is just as rigid beside me. Sighing in defeat, I pick a movie, any movie. It doesn't matter.

I manage ten whole minutes staring blankly at the screen in front of me, not really seeing the tiny figures that dance around, before I glance over. I almost choke on my drink. She's chosen the same movie as me. _Casablanca_. She glances over and smiles, but it lasts for no more than a moment and it's gone. It must be a coincidence. A strange one, but no less random. Once again, we pretend not to notice the person beside us. Yet, without a word uttered, our silent conversation continues and through some unspoken agreement, we watch four films together. _Casablanca._ _Shawshank Redemption. Roman Holiday. Carol._ We take turns choosing, simply following the other's lead.

Halfway through the flight, I notice the cabin has gotten warm. I put my hair up. It may be my imagination, but I think she leans in - barely - breathing in. I wonder if she can smell the jasmine I wear. When she falls asleep for an hour I allow myself to imagine her hands everywhere, touching, caressing every part of my body that silently aches for her. My face flushes hotly, but no one notices; the dim cabin lights hide my indiscretions. I breathe a sigh of frustration and order another drink.

It's impossible to tell exactly how the time passes, but before any meaningful words can be spoken, it's too late. The captain announces our descent; the lights flicker on, hard and fluorescent, quenching the darkness of the cabin and my rampant thoughts.

It's 6:30PM in Philadelphia. I'm exhausted, but it will be much longer before I can sink into the comfort of my own bed. One more flight before I reach National City.

Just when I think my sanity has returned, we land. People begin to shuffle about in the aisle and a firm panic fills the pit of my stomach and the back of my throat. How could such intimacy come and go in such a brief blink of an eye? Was it all imagined? I should say something. _Anything._

I open my mouth, unsure of what words will tumble out as I look up at her. She is staring back at me, a question in her eyes. She has already spoken and I missed it.

"Sorry, what?" I ask lamely.

"Is this your bag?" She gestures down to a brown leather carry-on in her previously occupied seat. She must have pulled it down for me. My stomach somersaults and I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear.

I nod, "Yes, thank you."

Our hands touch briefly, almost by accident, as she hands me the bag.

Her electric blue eyes meet mine, "You're welcome."

Heat suffuses my cheeks and I look away. I collect my things from my seat and try to gather my courage. I find it laying on the floor between my discarded headphones and unopened book. I turn back around... but she's gone. The only thing in front of me is a line of people shuffling hurriedly through the aisle towards the exit, where they will diffuse into the airport and become lost in a larger organism. Why did I look away? I should have asked her name; I should have asked anything.

I laugh a little to lighten the tightness in my chest. _There really is no point in regretting,_ I remind myself rationally. I make my way through the airport to the next gate, the last leg of my journey. Finally. Nonstop service from Philadelphia to National City. I wait for an hour or so in the terminal, grab a croissant, listen to some music. Soon enough it is time to board, so I make my way with the other passengers into the aircraft. Paying little attention to the hustle, losing myself in the music from my phone. _27A_. I find my seat. I'm almost home.

Hoisting my leather bag up to the overhead compartment, I feel another set of hands reach over me to help push the bag into place. Heat sweeps across my body, finding a home in my face; the music becomes a dull whisper in my ears.

With effort I turn around, brushing against the solid warmth of the person behind me. The aisles really are tiny in these aircrafts. I look up and my breath catches sharply. I tug on the string to pull my earbuds out. Her glasses are slightly skewed from helping lift my bag. My hand itches to right them. Her face is just as beautiful and striking as before. _Just say something,_ my mind growls at me.

I breathe out and smile, "Hi, again."

"Hey," her warm smile softens the planes of her face exponentially. She reaches an arm out past me, "After you."

I turn and take a calming breath, scooting to sit down beside the window. When I've settled into my seat, I turn to her. Our eyes meet, again.

"I'm Lena," I say, extending a hand. "Lena Luthor."

"Nice to meet you, Lena," she says softly, grinning, "I'm Kara."


End file.
